


The Dragon's Den

by sleeping_ranna



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bounty Hunter!McCree, Dragon!Hanzo, M/M, Rapunzel AU, Yakuza!Genji, hanzo is a snek boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 11:33:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8622985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeping_ranna/pseuds/sleeping_ranna
Summary: There is an entire tower of the Shimada castle that is off limits to all personnel. Only the clan leader may enter.  Rumors abound of ghosts haunting the halls, of the floors dyed red with blood from a past attack against the Shimada clan. But no one really knows. A few snoops have managed to get a look in and see the place is spotless. The best rumor is that is where the Shimadas have hidden a secret treasure – the key to their fortune. The tower is called by locals the Dragon’s Den.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ahhhhhhh ok this is based entirely on infinite-atmosphere‘s AU, who has given me permission to write this. This will be a full-fledged McHanzo (complete with happy ending) and is now on AO3! Wee!

_ There is an entire tower of the Shimada castle that is off limits to all personnel. No security, no servants, no cooks, no elders. Only the clan leader may enter. It stands pristine and empty. Rumors abound of ghosts haunting the halls, of the floors dyed red with blood from a past attack against the Shimada clan. But no one really knows. A few snoops have managed to get a look in and see the place is spotless. The best rumor is that is where the Shimadas have hidden a secret treasure – the key to their fortune. _

 

_ The tower is called by locals the Dragon’s Den _ .

 

McCree thumbs through the collection of files on his tablet, detailing the intel needed to infiltrate Shimada castle and seek out the key to the Shimada-gumi’s fortune. He personally chalks it up to strong leadership cultivated through generations, but the client was insistent.

 

_ “They have never faltered. Their prosperity never wanes. Not in 400 years, according to our family’s records. There is something unnatural at work, and I want you to find it and bring it to us.” _

 

The pay had a staggering amount of zeroes, but McCree had been loath to cross the Pacific and risk arrest, but the Hitori-gumi had requested him specifically, and had offered an expenses-paid trip across the ocean to fulfill their request. And hell, how could he say no?

 

Easily, to be quite honest. He had no real desire to take this job, money be damned. But a scheme prickled in the back of his mind – get the secret, get the money, and find a way to incriminate the Hitori-gumi and get out.

 

And taking down one of the most notorious weapons dealers in Asia was a mighty fine cause to throw his lot in with.

 

So here he was, slurping ramen across the street from Shimada Castle in scenic Hanamura, waiting for the next tour of the facilities to start.

 

The Shimada clan allowed public tours once a month to the castle, for the sake of preserving cultural heritage. McCree was gonna use that chance to snoop. Most of the intel he’d gathered suggested the best place to look for this, “secret to the Shimada fortune” would be hiding in the tower known as the Dragon’s Den.

 

A legend that he’d found written in the history of Hanamura suggested that the two dragons of the North and South winds had settled in the spot where the Dragon’s Den now stood. When the mortal North wind had called his brother to walk the earth, that is where the South wind’s claws had touched earth.

 

It was a sacred tower. That no one was allowed in. Except for the current clan leader, Shimada Genji. Once a handsome man, there had been an accident one night ten years ago when a fire had broken out in the family shrine. Shimada had survived, although the fire had left him badly scarred.

 

A newspaper clipping from four years back was included in the file – it showed the current clan leader at the opening of a new public library in the southwestern ghetto of Hanamura. Cutting the red ribbon, offering his blessing. All public records indicated that this man was a patron of the city - helping build parks, libraries, and a lover of the fine arts. And all of the fine dancing establishments that required you know someone in order to get in. 

 

Records indicated that there had been an older child who’d been stillborn. He hadn’t even been given a name. The whole clan had mourned for a month.

 

It seemed to be genetic. Almost every generation had one stillborn child. That was definitely odd.

 

McCree checked his watch. Ten to 1. It was time to go; the tour would be starting soon. McCree dropped 1000 yen on the counter and left without hailing a server. 

 

Outside, he could see a tour guide dressed in a formal yukata and hakama waiting outside the castle gates. McCree tipped his hat at the woman. 

 

“ _ Konnichiwa, _ ” He drawled. The woman bowed low.

 

“ _ Konnichiwa… _ ” The tour guide started, waiting for him to give his name.

 

“Jesse Jackson, ma’am.” McCree states, winking. The tour guide smiles and blushes as she checks him off on her clipboard.

 

“ _ Konichiwa,  _ Jackson-san. I hope your stay in Hanamura has been pleasant?” She asks. McCree pulls a pack of cigarillos out of his back pocket; he taps one out and lights it. He takes a drag and looks up at the soft blue sky as he blows out smoke.

 

“It has been peachy keen, I ain’t gonna lie. Everything here is downright beautiful.” McCree says, offering the guide another wink. He’s rewarded with another blush. Before the banter can continue, a young Japanese family appears and checks in with the guide. She starts the same conversation - asking if the family is enjoying their visit, what other places have they visited.

 

McCree pulls at the cigarillo, eyeing the castle gates beneath his hat. The tour would circle around the family shrine, finally ending inside the shrine where a formal tea ceremony would be held. The Dragon’s Den was on the northwest end of the compound - secluded by a wall and a small park. 

 

His best bet would be to slip away when they visited the archery yard in the northeastern part of the compound. The northern part of the castle grounds were more heavily wooded than here on the south end. And once he hopped the wall guarding the Dragon’s Den, he would be in the all clear. No one was allowed within the vicinity of the Dragon’s Den, with the exception of Shimada Genji. 

 

Just don’t get caught by the guards, get your cover blown, and get shot. Oh, and get out without getting caught. Easy peasy.

 

To his right, the tour guide calls for everyone to follow her - the tour is beginning. Aside from the young family that had showed up after him, an older couple that sound like they’re speaking German and a class of middle schoolers have arrived. This makes things slightly easier. He can use the middle schoolers to distract his presence. He notices one of the boys staring at his hat.

 

“Here ya go, kiddo.” He says, plopping his hat on the kid’s head. The boy immediately turns and starts chattering excitedly to his classmates. 

 

“Just make sure ya give it back, alright?” McCree says. The kid doesn’t seem to hear him.

 

The tour guide stops as McCree is about to step through the castle gates. 

 

“Jackson-san, would you please put out your cigar before entering?” She asks. 

 

“Sure thing, darlin’.” McCree answers, dropping his cigarrillo to the ground and crushing it beneath his boot.

 

The tour stops in the first tower directly across the courtyard. There hangs a huge bronze bell. The tour guide is speaking slowly and clearly in Japanese - he can thankfully piece together what she’s saying. This bell was originally used to call warriors of the Shimada clan to war when invading samurai attacked. It hasn’t been rung in two hundred years. 

 

They continue into another courtyard. There are  _ sakura _ trees in full bloom here, framing a gazebo in shades of pink. Flower petals litter the ground, softening the  _ clunk _ of McCree’s boots. He stops and stares, not listening to the tour guide’s gentle voice.

 

This place is beautiful, he cannot deny it. He looks across the courtyard to the shrine - a fire had supposedly broken out there, and Shimada had been badly burned rescuing the family relics from the shrine. Once the fire had been stopped, he’d been rushed to the hospital for the treatment of his burns. But the damage had been irreversible, according to medical documents. Shimada’s flesh had been burned beyond repair, even in this age of biotic emitters. Skin grafts had been attempted without any success, and Shimada had brushed it off. His lavish, public life style had continued once released from the hospital, leaving the public none the wiser to his family’s real trade. 

 

The tour went up a flight of stone stairs to the east of the shrine, and into another building. Servants’ living quarters, the once secret torture chambers hidden beneath them used by the assassins the Shimada used to train. (McCree notes a fresh blood stain in the corner of one cell, but says nothing.) The tour hurries on through another courtyard to the main hall where the clan elders meet. It is a royal and extravagant building, decorated with the Shimada clan’s insignia of two dragons biting the other’s tail. Blues and greens provide contrast to the cream colored _shōji_ doors guarding tatami meeting rooms. They continue on, McCree feigning interest.

 

There are guards casually wandering the grounds. Men and omnics in black suits with guns hiding underneath their tailored coats. McCree didn’t bring Peacekeeper with him. No weapons would be allowed on the premises, and there was no inconspicuous way to hide the gun on his person. His jeans hung too close to his thighs and it was too warm for him to wear a coat. He had a plastic blade in his pocket - flimsier than an actual pocket knife, but the edge was sharp enough to draw blood with some brute force. Honestly it wasn’t much, but he hoped his stealth would be enough.

 

Patrols would be increased after nightfall. Shimada Genji was currently away on business, and so security was lessened. He was expected to return tonight, and hopefully McCree would be well on his way to Tokyo to visit the Hitori-gumi and plan his next move.

 

They’re crossing towards the archery yard. The tour guide briefly informs them about the Dragon’s Den, pointing to the tip of the tower peeking through the trees.

 

_ “It has long been abandoned by the family - supposedly so many were killed there when the Shimadas were first established that the place is haunted with the screams of the dead” _ The tour guide explained in Japanese. 

 

“‘Scuse me, miss, why don’tcha show us that place?” McCree asks, nodding his head at the tower. The tour guide pauses and turns to him.

 

“ _ The tower is no longer structurally sound. It is for your own safety. _ ” The guide responds in Japanese. Some of the middle schoolers look awful disappointed at this news. McCree says nothing of how Shimada Genji is reported to go in there a couple times a week.

 

The tour guide ushers them along to the archery yard, where the Shimada clan has graciously set aside a dozen sets of bow and arrows for the tourists to try out archery. The middle schoolers all clamour for a chance to try, and the family smiles as their 5 year old rushes over to the rack of bows.

 

McCree slips behind the boy wearing his hat, and quietly snatches it from his head and places it on his own. He then wanders over to the tour guide, hands on his stomach and willing himself to look pale and sickly.

“Pardon me, miss, but couldja point me to a bathroom? M’fraid the ramen I had for lunch ain’t sitting well.” McCree murmurs. The tour guide frowns in sympathy.

 

“Yes, there are some public facilities in the dining hall to the north. Go in through the front door, and there will be a hallway off to the left that leads to a restroom.” The guide instructs.

 

“Thank ye kindly.” McCree says, and scurries off supposedly in search of a bathroom. 

 

The dining hall, where banquets are and parties are held, is just beyond the archery yard. McCree angles himself in that direction, grinning sheepishly at one guard as he clutches his stomach. The guard scans him once and continues on his patrol. 

 

McCree thinks on how the Omnic guards only patrol the southern part of the compound. Another curious thing, like the stillborn children. But one he is thankful for - most Omnics have thermal vision that would notice him running where he isn’t supposed to.

 

He ducks behind a tree and listens for a minute. There are no nearby footsteps, no mumbling guards. The area around the gate leading to the Dragon’s Den is wide and clear - no cover. And the gate was locked with a padlock, McCree had noted when the tour had passed by earlier. But there was a tree to the left of the gate that McCree could climb and hop the wall. The trick was sprinting across the clearing in front of the gate and not being seen by the three guards to the south. 

 

He figures he’ll just have to time it right when suddenly a cry came from the vicinity of the archery yard. McCree can hear the tour guide calling for an ambulance, and the three guards go running. He grins and starts running for the gate. He climbs the tree with ease, ignoring the groaning protests of the branch bearing his weight. 

 

“Now now, just hold out for a few more seconds while I just-” McCree jumps over the wall, wincing as the tree branch whacks his thigh viciously. Punishment for putting that much weight on it. He falls into overgrown grass. The grass and weeds grow to his waist, and the oak trees have ivy clinging all around their trunks.

 

This park is heavily untended, from what McCree can see. Truly abandoned. The sounds of the city and the rest of the castle seemed muted behind the ten foot wall. 

 

McCree swallows, and moves onwards toward the tower. The quiet puts him on edge. He feels like a ghost is gonna jump out and spook him. The wind whispers in the leaves, in the grass. His feet are muffled in soft soil and decaying leaves that have never been raked away.

 

Three minutes pass as McCree moves towards his goal, barely breathing. There’s no one here. No guards or servants, and Shimada is away on business. But McCree is tense. Who knows what’s in the tower.

The oaks and overgrown grass give way to an arc of blossoming  _ sakura _ and neatly trimmed grass. A rock garden sits next to the tower entrance, and a row of rose bushes with fat white blooms sits on the other side. McCree stares.

 

“So much fer bein’ abandoned.” McCree mutters, suddenly wishing he had his gun. But then stops. It could be possible that Shimada tends to this small yard, if he comes in here often. But then notices the soil underneath the roses looks freshly watered. No, someone  _ lives  _ here. Someone that no one outside the castle knows about, that only Shimada sees. 

 

He  _ really _ wishes he had his gun now.

 

But who on earth is out here? The guardian of the Shimada’s secrets? The key to their fortune? McCree swallows down the trepidation. He’s here on a job. He has to find out who this person is and what they know. Get in, incapacitate, tie ‘em down, and question them. Search the grounds. 

 

McCree moves, keeping low to the ground and hoping whoever’s there doesn’t see him coming from one of the windows. He opens the door and quickly shuts it, thanking the Holy Virgin that the door hinges are well oiled and don’t make a sound. He gently shuts the door, wincing at the gentle ‘click’ as it closes.  He turns and looks. McCree stands in a hallway that continues to the left and right, no other doors than the one he just came through. He decides to go right.

 

“Right is always right.” He whispers. He rounds the corner and sees a  _ shōji  _ door on the left, halfway down the hall. He slides up to it, listens. Hearing nothing, he opens it to reveal a large training room. Human dummies stand in a row, as well as a rack holding a far more ornate and mean looking bow than the ones over at the archery yard. A quiver of arrows hangs from one pole. Another rack holds a variety of Japanese blades - katana, naginata, more than McCree knows. He notices a shuriken stuck in the head of one dummy. Examination shows that this room probably takes up the entirety of the first floor, based on how big the building looked from the outside. McCree gently shuts the door, and continues down the hall. 

 

He rounds the next corner, and sees a wide set of stairs leading upwards. McCree tentatively puts his weight on the first step, and holds back a sigh of relief when it doesn’t creak. He proceeds up the stairs, taking care not to let the stairs creak under him. Windows line the wall, letting bright rays of afternoon sun. It makes the hall feel warm and welcoming, despite the deathly silence pervading the place. 

 

McCree desperately wishes the Shimada secret would just show itself, nice and blatant. He searches the floor-finds an office, a small library with two plush chairs and a low coffee table made of dark cherry wood, a  _ tatami _ room, and a spacious kitchen. He spends time in the office, but finds no documents or a computer. The only thing there seems to be a roll of parchment (who even uses that anymore), a bottle of ink, and a calligraphy paintbrush. 

 

The library is also disappointing. It’s filled with books on sciences, math, philosophy, and all kinds of literature. Some classic, like Dicken’s  _ A Tale of Two Cities _ (in English, no less), and some surprisingly raunchy. There’s also a pile of magazines - all the recent gossip worldwide. The one on top looks to be a Russian tabloid.

 

This place is bizarrely low tech. No computers, no holovids, nothing. Hell, the most technologically advanced place seems to be the kitchen.

 

There’s still the third floor to be explored though. And McCree imagines this is where the mystery resident of the Dragon’s Den is. McCree decides to take one of the knives from the kitchen with him, holding it so the flat of the blade presses against his wrist. 

 

The next flight of stairs is set into the wall. Only the window opposite the stairs lights up the dark passage. McCree swallows, and proceeds.

 

The landing is dark, lit gently by sunlight streaming through another  _ shōji _ . McCree’s grip on the knife tightens. The mystery resident is behind this door. There’s nowhere else for them to hide. 

 

McCree toes forward, and curses when a floorboard creaks under his foot. Now, of all the times?!

 

“ _ Genji? _ ” A voice calls from behind the  _ shōji _ . It’s male, low and dark sounding. McCree pushes away the thought of how pleasing that voice sounds.

 

“ _ Come in, Genji _ .” The voice says in Japanese.

 

_ Might as well be now,  _ McCree thinks. He moves to slide the  _ shōji _ . 

 

“ _ I thought you would not be home until toni-”  _ The voice stops as McCree slides open the door and they see each other.

 

The man is beautiful, McCree is shocked. Dark hair frames an elegant, sharply-angled face covered with a neatly trimmed beard. The man wears a  _ kyodo-gi _ in orange and white, with the Shimada family insignia on both breasts. He has scales at the corners of his eyes, and strange horns growing from his temples. And below his waist is a thick, bright blue tail instead of legs. The man is… is…

  
“What in the fucking hell?” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree comes face to face with a snake boy and is ready to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving ya filthy animals.

Is he hallucinating? What is this… this… what even  _ is  _  this thing staring at him? Did he wander over some shrooms as he’d wandered through the park?

 

The snake/man thing is as still and baffled looking as McCree is, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. His hand is resting on the window sill (the only circular window in the tower, McCree dimly noted). Outside, the view of Hanamura is probably stunning. 

 

The two of them stare like that for a time. McCree loses track. McCree can’t move, can’t even think of what to  _ do _ . But then, in a split second, the snake man’s face shifts from shock to hostility. He moves, impossibly fast like a viper strike, slithering over the floor, and catching McCree and shoving him against the far wall of the landing. One hand finds his throat, squeezing out the air from his lungs. The other snags his wrist and slams it next to his head, sending the knife clattering to the floor. He feels that tail, that impossible tail, twining around his legs and squeezing, preventing him from kicking back.

 

“ _ Who are you, how did you get in here _ ?” The snake man demands in Japanese. McCree’s mouth moves in silent gasps, trying to answer, trying to  _ breathe _ . A small croak escapes his mouth. The snake man seems not to understand that he can’t answer if he can’t breathe. 

 

“ _ Who. Are. You. Answer me!? _ ” The snake man demands again. McCree’s free hand, the mechanical one, grabs the snake man’s neck - he’d leaned in too close in order to put his full weight on McCree - and squeezes back. The snake man’s mouth opens and a strangled noise comes out.

 

It becomes a race to see who passes out first. McCree loses.

 

McCree wakes and groans. His throat aches something awful - he’s gonna have a nasty bruise soon. He’s finds himself laying down - his head cushioned by an incredibly soft pillow, body upon a bed like a cloud.

 

“ _ I see you are awake _ .” A voice calls from a corner. McCree sits up, wincing as the muscles in his neck protest his rising. He turns and there’s the snake man, sitting on a large cushion with the kitchen knife McCree had snagged in his hands. The afternoon sun slants in through the window, casting the creature in a sharp light.

 

McCree swallows, eyeing the tattoo peeking out of the snake man’s loose sleeve and his broad shoulders. He tries to ignore the bright blue scales around the creature’s eyes, how they contrast so nicely with his dark eyes. 

 

“ _ Now tell me - who are you? _ ” The snake man asks again. 

 

“Name’s McCree, darlin’.” He says. He might as well answer this creature - it’s faster and stronger than he is by a landslide. He’s surprised he hasn’t been killed yet, but reckons he can talk his way out of this. The creature tilts its head, eyes widening as he answered in English.

 

“You are an American?” The snake man asks, surprised. McCree feels surprised too.

 

“You speak English?” He asks. 

 

“Answer the question.” The snake man says.  _ Reckon that answers  _ my  _ question _ , McCree muses. He is surprised that he hasn’t been tied down. This thing is oddly trusting - that or extremely confident in its ability to murder.

 

“Yah, I’m an ‘Merican. Jesse McCree, at yer service.” McCree replies. The snake man ‘hmm’s at this.

 

“And what brings you to my home, Jesse McCree?” The snake man asks. McCree fights back a shudder at how his name sounds rolling off that strange being’s tongue. That voice was a deadly weapon, not to mention the rest of him. He swallows thickly.

 

“Heard stories of a haunted tower that’s been abandoned for centuries, but still looks immaculate on the outside. Investigating something like that was too good to pass up.” He lies. He can’t say he’s here to bring down the Shimada-gumi, that’s a death sentence, but the story he comes up with sounds plausible.  _...Right? _

 

“Yes. I know those stories. They also all mention rumors that this is where the Shimada clan hides the secret to their fortune.” The snake man states coolly, fingering the blade and looking up at McCree from under thick eyelashes.

 

_ Shit _ . 

 

“Well, uh, yah. Reckon they do. But y’know, I figured all that bull was just good genetics and discipline in the family. Y’all can afford the best tutors, after all.” McCree replies. That is not a lie. He really hadn’t expected to find anything here, much less…  _ this _

 

The snake man is still toying with the kitchen knife, fingering the tip of the blade and just barely running the pad of his thumb down the edge. McCree’s heart thumps painfully in his chest. He suddenly sets the blade down, making McCree jump. The snake man rises on his tail and slithers over to wear McCree sits.

 

_ Mother Mary forgive me for all the evil I have done- _

 

“To be quite honest, I should kill you,” McCree makes an audible gulp sound. The snake man bends and resumes a sitting posture, his tail coiled in a thick pile around him.

 

“No one is allowed in here but my brother.” 

 

Brother. Wait, what? Whose brother? The snake man had called for Genji earlier - was he Shimada’s brother? Shimada didn’t have any siblings - just the one who -

 

“But. I have never seen an outsider before, much less an American. There is much I could learn from you.” The snake man finished, stroking the fur that grew on the spine of his tail. McCree’s mouth dropped open.

 

“Ya… ya want me to be like, your  _ tutor _ ? On what?” McCree asks, baffled. The snake man looks at the floor.

 

“My brother is the only person I have seen in a long time… He brings me books and magazines and films to watch, to keep me educated on the world outside. And he talks of business and his travels. But another’s viewpoint… that would be priceless to me.” The snake man says quietly. McCree puzzles at that.

 

“Wait, yer tellin’ me you ain’t ever left this tower? Ain’t seen or talked to another person?” McCree asks. The snake man glares at him, and McCree feels a thrill of fear run up his spine.

 

“No.” The snake man answers, bowing his head. McCree thought he saw a bit of pink in the snake man’s cheeks.

 

“Well shit, darlin’. Why don’tcha leave?” McCree kicks himself the moment the words come out of his mouth. The snake man glares at him, the words unspoken between them:  _ Where could I go, looking like this? _

 

“Alright, fair,” McCree says, holding his hands up in surrender. He scratches his head.

 

“So… all that’s…  _ real _ ? Like, that’s a real…” McCree gestures broadly at the tail wrapped around the snake man. 

 

“Yes, it’s real.” The snake man retorts. McCree whistles.

 

“Damn. How’n the hell did you wind up with that? I ain’t hearda any experiments like that in the news.” McCree says. 

 

The snake man continues glaring. McCree takes the hint.

 

“Sore subject, gotcha. I’ll leave it be.” McCree says. And takes a minute to look around the room.

 

This room, the master bedroom McCree figures, must take up most of the third floor. Where he lies is what was once a California king-sized futon, but now is a pile of blankets and large pillows. McCree thinks he notices a small plush toy in the shape of an onion peeking out from one blanket. There are three large circular windows along the walls, indeed giving a wide and generous view of Hanamura. 

 

Still, the city looks far removed from this creature’s tower. There’s a desk in the corner the snake man had sat in when McCree had first woke, and he sees there is in fact a holovid computer glowing above it. Shelves line the opposite wall, McCree’s right, covered in books and scrolls. There’s a large armoire next to one of the windows. 

 

“So uh, whatcha wanna know, pardner? Bout life outside of your tower?” McCree asks. The snake man hums at this, stroking his beard. McCree notices his tail adjust, the bright blue scales catching the light as they subtly stretch and contract. He sees flickers of rainbows scatter about the room every time one is struck by the sunlight just so.

 

“Tell me of your home, McCree-san. Describe it to me. Looks, sounds, smells. I have access to the internet, but it only shows.” The snake man asks. McCree grins.

 

“Alrighty, I can do that mighty fine.  Y’know I grew up in the States, but specifically I grew up in New Mexico. Just outside’a Santa Fe. Now, your Hanamura is awful pretty, but it ain’t got nothin’ on the desert. The wind scorches your skin, dry and miserable as the sun beats ya from up on high. Y’can feel the soles of your sneakers meltin’ as you walk ‘cross the street to the corner market to buy a dollar ice pop that’ll be half melted before ya can get back home.

 

“The sounds I reckon are much the same. Hypertrains runnin’ through town, people yammerin’ away on handsets.  At night it gets damn cold, your breath comes out in white clouds and the moon glows like a beacon up above, guiding ya to a place where you can hang your hat and rest real comfortable. Cacti dot the city limits, guardians warning you that there ain’t no livin’ if you cross the border they mark. 

 

“Sometimes, if you’re driving at just the right time, you’ll catch the glimpse of a coyote silhouetted against the moonrise. And you’ll feel like you just glimpsed past the Veil.

 

“There’s a diner ‘bout 15 minutes’ drive from where I grew up. My mama would load me into a truck that probably was manufactured outta the early 2000’s, and would drive us over for breakfast on Sunday mornin’s. We never went to church, ‘cept on Easter Sunday, but she would open up the good book and read to me over my stack of flapjacks. And those flapjacks were the best damn thing ever. Thick and fluffy and they melted on your tongue with all the warmth and love that comes from butter and sugar and the tender eyes of yer mama watchin’ over ya.”

 

McCree stops, finding tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He hasn’t thought of his mother in years, the memory of losing her still stung after all these years.

 

The snake man clears his throat, bringing McCree out of his reverie with a small sniffle.

 

“I apologize, McCree-san, I did not know this would bring you pain to speak of.” He says, voice tender. McCree waves his hand in dismissal.

 

“Naw naw, I’m just fine. Just hadn’t thought ‘bout my mama in a dog’s age.” McCree says. The snake man frowns.

 

“In a… dog’s… age?” He asks, puzzled. McCree chuckles. 

 

“Means in a long time.” He explains. The snake man nods.

 

“I see. I have already learned much from you, McCree-san.” The snake man says, bowing. McCree feels a bit embarrassed.

 

He gingerly feels his neck and winces. Definitely tender. He would need to ice it when he got back to the hotel, and find some bandana or scarf or something to hide the bruise. His serape was too conspicuous. The Hitori-gumi were watching his back to make sure no one came to collect on his bounty, but their protection wasn’t worth much as oh say… The Shimada-gumi.

 

Does this strange being in front of him really have any ties to the Shimada-gumi? Sure, he lives in this tower, never seeing anyone but his brother. But does he tie in to the gun running somehow? The drugs? 

 

The snake man’s eyes shifted to McCree’s neck when he’d winced. His fists tighten in his lap.

 

“I… apologize for harming you before. I have never seen a foreigner, and feared for my safety.” The snake man says gently. McCree chuckles.

 

“Ain’t no fault of yours. I’m the one that barged in with a knife.” McCree says. The snake man looks at him, and slithers closer. McCree leans back a little as the snake man invades his space.

 

“Why  _ did _ you have a knife?” He asks suspiciously. McCree rubs the back of his head.

 

“Well, I’m in a tower I ain’t supposed to be in, that’s supposed to be abandoned, but clearly looks to be inhabited. Had me awful nervous and wantin’ a bit of protection.” McCree explains.

 

“And you did not bring a weapon with you?” The snake man asks. McCree’s mind flashes to the plastic knife in his pocket.

 

“Wasn’t plannin’ on getting into that much trouble, to be honest.” McCree mumbles. The snake man leans back, and his lips quirk up at the corners, before he breaks out into full laughter. McCree swears internally as he drinks in the sight and sound. The man isn’t even  _ human  _ and McCree feels like a dog in heat.

 

“You are an interesting man, McCree-san.” The snake man says, still smiling. McCree fights valiantly to ignore how that smile makes his stomach turn. The snake man rises, and moves to the armoire. He pulls a scarf out - a green one the shade of oak leaves, with delicately embroidered koi on the ends, and offers it to McCree.

 

“Your neck is bruising. This will help hide it until it heals.” The snake man says. 

 

“That’s awful nice of ya, but you don’t have to.” McCree says. The snake man frowns.

 

“I insist.” He replies. McCree doesn’t feel much like arguing, and accepts without further protest. He wraps the silk gently around his neck, letting the ends trail over the his left shoulder.

 

“You wouldn’t happen to have the time, wouldja?” McCree asks. The snake man looks to the window.

 

“I would guess it is about 4 o’clock.” The snake man says. 

 

“Shit. So much for catchin’ up with the tour. They’ve probably been scourin’ the grounds trying to figure out where I ran off to.” McCree says, standing and pacing. He finally notices that his boots have been removed, and sit at the edge of the futon next to his hat. The snake man rises as well.

 

“I can show you the underground passage I use to collect groceries, if you promise me something.” The snake man says. McCree scratches his cheek.

 

“Well, that would certainly be helpful. But what’s the promise?” McCree asks. The snake man slithers up to him and stares him in the eye. McCree can see now there are thin veins of blue running through the man’s golden horns.

 

“Promise you will come back tomorrow, and tell me more stories.” The snake man declares. McCree lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in.

 

“That all? Reckon I can do just that.” McCree says, winking. The snake man blinks. 

 

“Please come at 1 o’clock tomorrow.” The snake man says as McCree pulls on his boots. McCree puts on his hat and tips it at the snake man.

 

“I can do that.” McCree says. “Now uh, ‘bout that underground passage you mentioned?” He starts. 

 

“Yes, follow me please.” The snake man says. He slides open the door, and slides down the stairs. McCree follows, marvelling at the snake man’s tail. It looks to be 10 feet long on the floor, not including the length used to support the man. The golden fur doesn’t sparkle in the light the way the scales do. It looks more like satin, McCree figures. But it still looks soft.

 

They reach the first floor, and walk the full circle of the hall. At the far end (should McCree had gone left earlier) there is a dead end, and a 6 foot wide trap door set in the floor. The snake man flips it open, sits himself on the lip of the opening, and begins to lower himself down with a rope attached to the edge. McCree watches him go down into darkness. He notes that there is fact a ladder on the left side, and what appears to be a hand operated lift on the right. Below, light flares as the snake man lights an oil lantern. He looks up at McCree.

 

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” McCree calls as he descends the ladder. The walls of the passage are lined with dark gray stone, he notes.

 

The passage is about 10 feet down, and continues straight for an unknown distance. McCree takes care not to step on the snake man’s tail as he plants his feet on the floor. The snake man turns after watching him climb down, and begins moving forward into the darkness. McCree follows just behind, absently wondering if this is where he will die instead of in the tower.

 

_ Maybe he just didn’t want to get blood on the floor up there.  _ McCree thinks, feeling anxiety curl in his stomach.

 

“You ain’t… you ain’t leading me to my death down here, are ya, pardner?” McCree asks, trying not to sound nervous. He thinks he’s failing. The snake man glances at him over his shoulder.

 

“If I wanted you dead, I can assure you that you would already be so.” The snake man says. McCree thinks he sees a smile curling the man’s mouth. 

 

“Yeah, I reckon so.” McCree says, laughing. They continue on through the tunnel, saying nothing for five minutes. They come to the end of the path, and McCree sees a similar setup as under the Dragon’s Den: rope in the middle, ladder on the left, and a hand operated lift on the right. 

 

“This passage leads to an empty storeroom in the back of one of my family’s food banks.” The snake man says. “There is a backdoor that leads into an alley. You may use this to come and visit. I expect you at 1 o’clock,  _ sharp _ , McCree-san.” The snake man says. McCree smiles.

 

“Aye aye, cap’n. I’ll be there right on the dot.” McCree says, and starts climbing the ladder. When he’s almost to the top, and starting to shove the trap door open, he looks down and see that the snake man has been watching him leave.

 

“Y’know, I never did get your name, stranger.” McCree says. The snake man continues to look up at him.

 

“My name is… Shimada Hanzo.” The snake man, no,  _ Hanzo _ says. McCree smiles as he lifts himself over the edge and peers down the passageway.

 

“Well, Hanzo, I’ll see ya tomorrow.  _ Adios. _ ” McCree says, and shuts the trap door. He stands and looks around.

 

Definitely a store room. There are few boxes with labels on them, but McCree doesn’t quite recognize the letters. He can speak and understand spoken Japanese alright, but reading it gives him a bit of trouble. There are two doors - McCree presses his ear against one and hears nothing. Cautiously cracking it open, he sees the wall of another building. Phew. The last thing he needs is to open up into a food bank and a whole bunch of confused folks wondering how an American got in without going through the front door.

 

He slides out the door, and makes his way to the street. He has no fucking idea where he is - somewhere in the heart of downtown. He makes note of the address of the food bank so he can find it tomorrow, then hails a cab. He gives the address of his motel, and off they go. McCree feels full of excitement and nerves - he’s met some kind of mythological snake man, who wants him to come back and tell stories. Christ Almighty, this has to be a dream.

 

McCree pinches himself, but finds himself still awake. 15 minutes later, the cab is pulling up to his motel and McCree pays his fair in cash to the Omnic driving.

 

“Have a nice evenin’,” McCree calls as he slams the door shut. He goes up to his room and surveys it. Peacekeeper is still in its holster, slung over a chair. His serape is still covering his pillow, the torn edge peeking out exactly one inch from under the pillow. No one’s been in since he left. That’s good.

 

But he knows things are bad now - he disappeared from the Shimada estate while on a public tour. The guards would definitely report this to Shimada when he got back. It is gonna be hard to wander around the city with the Shimada-gumi looking for him. He’ll need a new outfit. He’ll hit a shopping center tomorrow. But first he needs to-

 

His burner phone starts ringing on the table. Speak of the devil. He goes over and pick it up.

 

“This is McCree.” He says.

 

“Where the hell have you been?” Hitori Arashi demands. 

 

“Snoopin’ round Shimada Castle, like you  _ paid me _ to do.” McCree growls.

 

“You get paid after you find the secret to the Shimada-gumi’s wealth.” Arashi says. “Did you find anything?” He asks crossly. McCree’s mind flashes to Hanzo, standing shocked and beautiful next to the window after McCree had thrown open the  _ shōji _ .

 

“No.” McCree answers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! Chapter 2 for your reading pleasure! Yes, McCree was extremely impolite once he learned Hanzo’s name. We’ll get into that later. Also, McCree’s accent has a tendency to thicken when he’s nervous. (Like when, a mythological snake man is staring at you with a knife in his hands)
> 
> special thanks to my beta readers serenitydiviness and cool-ghoul on tumblr. Thanks for proof reading, providing feedback, and suffering my good ideas.
> 
> I’m halfway done with the next chapter already, but now that I’m feeling healthy and can sit up my capstone design project takes precedence over personal projects. I will continue working as I can to get chapter 3 out as soon as possible, but know that I’m more concerned with graduating from college right now.
> 
> Cheers!
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr: sleeping-ranna.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at the life of one Shimada Hanzo... plus one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swear to God, this is the last chapter you guys get for a while. I NEED to focus now.

Hanzo doesn’t get a chance to yell at McCree-san for not addressing him properly. He doesn’t get to tell him that it is rude to address someone by their first name with no honorific if you have just met them. That doing so is usually a sign of  _ intimacy _ . Swearing under his breath, he picks up the lantern and starts the trek home.

 

That store room is where Hanzo picks up his food. Genji has food delivered to the food bank, and they put it in the backroom. Hanzo places it on the platform, climbs down and uses the crank to lower it, then comes back to the tower and does the same thing in reverse, and takes everything up to the kitchen. 

 

Upon his return, he goes to his room. Spying a glint, he goes and picks up the knife that McCree-san had armed himself with. He can see it is one of the ones from the kitchen. Hanzo goes back downstairs to put it away. Then he stares blankly at the sink.

 

_ In all my time, I have never met an American. _ The voice growls in the back of Hanzo’s mind.

 

“Nor have I.” Hanzo answers softly.

 

_ He was most interesting. This,  _ Santa Fe _ , I can’t imagine it. Desert? Dry wind?  _ Flapjacks _?  _ The dragon ponders.

 

Hanzo is the secret to the Shimada Clan’s good fortune and prosperity. His body is a living temple - to the dragon. His scales, his horns, his tail, all signs of the draconic spirit overtaking his body. There is little of Hanzo left in this body. And that is the price - the Shimada clan, for centuries, offered up the firstborn child to the dragon in exchange for the blessings of the gods. Sometimes the dragon did not take - sensing that there would be no other children in this generation, it left the firstborn untouched to wait until a true host could be offered. 

 

When the bargain had first been struck, the Shimadas had misunderstood, thinking the dragon had wanted a human sacrifice. No, the dragon wanted a human  _ host _ , a means to which it might better understand the human condition. It was a living thing in the host’s body, thinking and experiencing things with the host. Feeling, tasting, seeing as humans do. Human bodies were not meant to contain the spirit of a dragon, though, and slowly the dragon manifests itself in mortal flesh. Scales, claws, horns.

 

No one has survived the possession to the point Hanzo has, though.

 

The tail had started forming when he was 20. Over 7 years, his legs slowly morphed together, thickening, elongating, and sprouting fur. He’d been forced into a wheelchair for most of that time - relying on Genji to transport him where he needed to be. He’d been so grateful when the tail had finished growing, and he found he could move himself again.

 

“Shall I go look up what flapjacks are?” Hanzo asks the dragon.

 

_ Please do. _ The dragon answers. Hanzo slithers up to his room, and takes his seat at the desk. He presses a button against the holovid and watches the screen expand, flaring to life. An app in the right corner, glowing neon green, states that a SHIMADA GENJI’s flight has departed Hong Kong, and will touch down in Tokyo will at approximately 10:30 tonight. Hanzo briefly ponders whether Genji will stop by and say hello once he returns to Hanamura. 

 

He doubts it. Genji has been becoming distant for the past year. He’ll most likely immediately retire and visit in the morning.

 

Returning to the task at hand, Hanzo pulls open the web browser app and a quick search says that flapjacks are more commonly known as pancakes, a small, thin, starch-based cake usually eaten for breakfast.

 

“Satisfied?” Hanzo asks.

 

_ Hmm, not really. That McCree’s explanation, as well as this one, leaves me wondering. I would like for you to actually eat some. I want to know how it tastes.  _ The dragon says. Hanzo’s lips curl in a pout.

 

“Some other time. I still have some donburi left over.” Hanzo says.

 

_ That is fine. Just make sure you try it at some point. _ The dragon says. Briefly Hanzo wonders if he could convince McCree-san to make them for him. Did he even know how to make them?

 

The dragon has been a presence in his mind since before he’d even had conscious thought. It had been the rumblings of the dragon’s voice in the corners of his mind that had often been his lullaby as a baby, and the dragon was the one who’d soothed him from nightmares that woke him in the night screaming.

 

His mother could not spend all her time raising him, and neither could his father. The dragon had claimed his life as the sacrifice, and so for a year his mother had supposedly locked herself away in grief. During this time, she’d lived here in the tower, nursing and raising him. After that, a nanny had been hired to raise him to the age of 7, then disposed of discreetly. Most of the signs of the possession had not manifested yet - with the exception of the horns that began sprouting when he was six. He’d cried to the nanny, saying the bumps on his head were hurting. But she did nothing.

 

Hanzo sighs, pulling up a news app. A new bill is being pushed to raise funding for schools, he’ll talk to Genji about its merit and see if that’s something the Shimadas should be backing. He sees the local baseball team is playing tonight. He watches a stream for about half an hour - the visiting team is up by 2 in the bottom of the 3rd, and sees the home team strike out, 1, 2, 3. Good God they’re awful. He closes the stream with a swipe of his finger.

 

He checks the stock market. Vishkar is up by 0.7% today. Pulls up another news app - this one in English and based out of British Columbia. Diplomacy talks are underway there - members of the Shambali are visiting, promoting the Iris philosophy and making an effort to lower tensions between the Omnics and humans there. Commentators doubt the success of the venture - riots have broken out in Tacoma. 

 

Hanzo swipes the app away, pulls up one in Mandarin. Construction has started on a new amusement park. For a second, he wishes he could go to one. Genji went to one as a child and brought him back a Pachimari plush he’d won at a carnival game. That little plush had been a source of comfort as a child on the days when the loneliness had swallowed him whole.

 

That’s why despite everything he’s ever been told about how his existence must be kept a secret, he hadn’t killed McCree-san. All his young life his father had warned how if people found out about him, what was happening to his body and the presence of the dragon, he would be taken away, experimented on, tortured. If an outsider sneaks in, he must not hesitate to kill them to protect himself.  

 

But McCree-san, despite the initial reaction towards violence… Once McCree-san had fallen unconscious, Hanzo had spent a long time staring at him. The hat, the boots, the prosthetic. The rugged features, the broad shoulders, the muscled arms…

 

Curiosity had gotten the best of him. He’d removed the boots and hat, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the smell of the man’s feet, and moved the stranger to his nest in the middle of the room. Hanzo had shoved most of the blankets out of the way, allowing McCree-san to rest uncovered.

 

He’d collected the kitchen knife from the floor, and then sat in the corner and watched the stranger sleep as he considered his options.

 

Genji would be distraught to know a stranger had snuck in and had found him, and had been armed nonetheless. But…

 

_ He looks interesting, doesn’t he?  _ The dragon had asked. The thought had made Hanzo jump.

 

_ Like that movie your brother had insisted on watching as a child, what was it?  _ Quigley Down Under _?  _ The dragon had continued.

 

“Yes he does.” Hanzo had admitted quietly. He’d decided to question the man, to see if he was here to expose the Shimada secret. If not (and he sincerely hoped that to be the case) he would persuade the man to speak of his experiences. 

 

McCree-san had admitted to knowing the rumors, but showed no signs of believing them. He seemed to have no interest in the secret to the Shimada’s fortune, and had just been out to satisfy his own curiosity.And that had been the end of his consideration of the merit of killing the stranger.

 

Still, the thrill of a stranger potentially here to ruin his family does wicked things to Hanzo’s stomach, causing it to turn.

 

_ You like the danger. It excites you. _ The dragon muses.

 

“Hush, go away.” Hanzo mutters. The dragon chuckles in his mind.

 

_ Very well. I’ll be quiet _ . The dragon says.

 

“Good.” Hanzo says.

 

He looks at the clock display. 8:03. Hanzo goes downstairs to the kitchen and opens the fridge. On one shelf is the neatly wrapped donburi he’d been saving for dinner tonight. He sets it on the counter while he fetches the teapot from the cupboard. Filling it and setting it on the stove to heat, Hanzo removes the plastic wrap from the bowl and places it in the microwave for three minutes.

 

He thinks on what McCree-san said today, of Sante Fe. He’s read a few Westerns, mostly by Louis L’Amour, and everything seems to line up with the books. Although, Hanzo thinks, McCree-san added some personal flairs.

 

_ Speaking of his mother was painful. Most likely she’s dead. _ Hanzo thinks.  The teapot starts whistling and Hanzo fetches his tin of tea leaves, heaping a spoonful into a cup and pouring in the water. As Hanzo turns off the stove, he goes and checks the temperature of the donburi. Still cold in the middle. He cooks it for another two minutes.

 

After the microwave finishes a second time, he checks and finds the food to be cooked sufficiently. He fetches a pair black enameled chopsticks and brings his food and tea to the table. The tip of his tail twitches gently as he sits down on the stool, polishing the floor beneath.

 

“ _ Itadakimasu, _ ” Hanzo says quietly, before plucking a particularly large chunk of beef off the top and sticking it in his mouth. He closes his eyes, savoring the  _ mirin _ . He’d always had a sweet tooth, and always added a bit more of the rice wine than was called for. 

 

Hanzo muses on McCree-san’s talk again. He’d clung to each word with a desperation that was unfamiliar to him, the man’s thick drawl painting scenes vividly in his mind’s eye. He thinks on the description of the night skyline - the cacti. Are they like in the American cartoons he’d watched as a child? Tall and prickly and vaguely humanoid? He will ask tomorrow.

 

And the coyote. What do coyotes look like? Hanzo can search that later. But how could a place so warm get so cold? And McCree-san said he was on vacation - does he travel often? Where does he go? What are those places like?

 

Hanzo finds himself impatient for tomorrow. This man has opened a door for him, and he plans to take full advantage of the opportunity. Genji doesn’t need to know. McCree-san will come through the underground passage and no one will be any wiser for it. The clan elders don’t even know Hanzo exists - they know the firstborn is sacrificed to the dragon, but they think life is lost, burnt in sacrificial fire. They do not know what truly happens to the baby. It’s a miracle that after so many centuries, no one’s figured it out. But the blessing of the gods will do that.

 

Finishing the donburi, (still good, even on the second day) Hanzo washes his dishes and places them on the rack to dry. He goes upstairs to his office and settles himself in the plush chair behind the desk. Unfurling a piece of parchment, he considers what to write.

>  
> 
> _ A desert flower _
> 
> _ Brings tidings of strange fortunes _
> 
> _ Smelling of the west _

 

Hanzo chuckles, staring at his handiwork as the ink dries. He places the calligraphy brush in a cup of water he keeps behind the desk. The water is already black with ink. He will need to replace the water tomorrow and thoroughly clean the brush.

 

He gently taps the ink, checking to see if it’s dry. Finding it so, Hanzo rises and grabs his calligraphy folder from inbetween the copy of  _ A Tale of Two Cities  _ and  _ Light, Wind, and Dreams _ . He carefully places the parchment in the folder and places it back on the shelf. 

 

Hanzo returns to his room upstairs. Shedding his  _ kyudo-gi _ and placing it in the hamper, he opens the door to the bathroom. Inside is a large bath styled like an  _ onsen _ with two shower heads above. The shower heads are angled opposite each other, covering a wide area with water. Not quite usual, but it suits Hanzo’s anatomy far better.

 

He doesn’t feel up to a full bath tonight. He slides into the tub and runs the shower heads, hissing as cold water streams down, slowly warming. Hanzo grabs the shampoo and starts scrubbing his scalp. Quickly followed by conditioner, then grabbing the soap and scrub brush. He takes his time washing his tail, making sure his belly scales have all dirt removed from underneath them. Some dirt had managed to get under a scale once when he was younger and actually caused an infection. It had been a nightmare to try and treat. Hanzo examines his body and sees the scales on the back of his hips have risen higher.

 

No one has become this transformed by the dragon in the family’s history. Everyone had died by the age of 25 due to... complications. But Hanzo continues on, watching the dragon’s spirit slowly morph him into something less than human year after year.

 

Hanzo pushes that train of thought from his head. There are far better things to think about, like McCree-san’s visit tomorrow. He needs to write down all the questions he has. There’s so much Hanzo can learn with a fresh perspective. 

 

When Hanzo leaves the bathroom, the sun has completely settled behind the skyline. Hanzo doesn’t bother with a light switch. He’s had keen night vision all his life. Probably a side effect of the possession.

 

The holovid display says it’s 9:10. Over an hour before Genji touches down in Tokyo, another hour before he arrives in Hanamura. 30 minutes of driving at least from the airport to home. Hanzo isn’t tired, he decides to stay up and watch a movie.

 

He orders  _ Quigley Down Under  _ on pay per view (Genji’s credit card, of course). He drags some some blankets over in front of the holovid, and settles in with Pachimari under his chin. After the end credits roll, Hanzo can’t be bothered to drag the blankets back to the futon. He falls asleep there, Pachimari squished against his cheek.

 

In the morning, Hanzo wakes to bright sunlight and the chirping of birds just outside his window. He groans in frustration - the bottom half of his tail is asleep and he’s got a God-awful crick in his neck.

 

Hanzo slides out of the makeshift nest, hissing as blood flow returns to his tail and the nerves spark to life. He gathers up the blankets and Pachimari and throws them in the general area of the futon. He’ll fix it in a minute. 

 

Sliding over to the armoire, Hanzo selects a clean  _ gi  _ for the day. This one is black, with clouds and lightning on the right sleeve. Quickly checking the time and seeing it is 8:07, Hanzo goes downstairs to the kitchen. Genji will probably be here soon, so he measures out two servings of rice in the rice cooker. Absentmindedly Hanzo tucks his bangs behind his ears as he sets up the teapot on the stove.

 

“Aniiiiijaaaaaa…” Hanzo hears the voice calling from down the hall.

 

“Kitchen.” Hanzo calls. The tip of his tail flicks the linoleum - the only betrayal of his happiness.

 

“Anija, did you miss me?” Genji asks, leaning up against the door frame into the kitchen. Hanzo turns.

 

“Of course I didn’t. I was finally able to work without you popping in every five minutes or video calling.” Hanzo says blandly. Genji swoons, pressing his hand to his forehead.

 

“Ah! The betrayal! How could you, Anija?” Genji laments, staggering exaggeratedly into the kitchen. Hanzo smirks, the corner of his mouth turning up ever so slightly.

 

“Easily, and you know it.” Hanzo says. Genji laughs, shrugging out of his suit jacket and tossing it over his shoulder. Stuffing his free hand into his pocket, he comes over and leans one hip against the counter while Hanzo pulls down two tea cups from the cupboard.

 

“How was Hong Kong, Genji? Did the shipment go well?” Hanzo asks, eyeing his brother before fetching the tea tin. Genji shifts, pressing his back against the counter and looking across the kitchen.

 

“Mmhm. One of our subcontractors was trying to stiff us. Good call, Anija.” Genji states, smiling at Hanzo. Despite the scars leaving his skin mottled and aged beyond his 35 years, the mischievous twinkle hasn’t left his eyes. Somehow, when Genji goes out partying, living the life of a flamboyant philanthropist for the public, he still has every young thing clinging on his arm, male or female. He’s dressed all in black today, the top 4 buttons of his shirt undone exposing scarred but still heavily muscled flesh.

 

“I told you the books weren’t adding up with what we were being given.” Hanzo replies, handing Genji a mug.

 

Despite not being allowed to leave the tower, Hanzo still remains the primary brains of the Shimada-gumi’s operations. Genji provides him with the shipping logs, the invoices, everything, and Hanzo makes his best recommendation. Genji then goes out, the face of the operation, and seals deals and makes alliances and strikes down enemies.

 

“You’re so smart Anija. You should be the one out there, boldly leading the clan to victory.” Genji says, sipping his tea. Hanzo’s jaw tightens at the subtle jab about his existence. 

 

“Someone must ensure the clan’s prosperity.” He says curtly. Face cautiously neutral, Genji examines him.

 

“What about you, Anija? Did you read those magazines I brought you yet?” Genji asks, changing the subject.

 

“That tabloid? Bah, Genji. You know I have no time for such things. I don’t even know Russian.” Hanzo says, waving his hand. Genji laughs.

 

“Come on, Anija! You know it’s only a matter of before you learn. How many languages have you mastered so far?” Genji asks. 

 

“Four.” Hanzo says as he sips his tea. He isn’t trying to brag. He simply has the time.

 

“Exactly! Russian will be a no-brainer!” Genji insists, bumping his shoulder against Hanzo’s. Hanzo rolls his eyes and sips his tea again.

 

The rice cooker dings, signalling it’s done. Hanzo fetches two bowls and two sets of chopsticks.

 

“I assumed you didn’t eat breakfast yet, or if you did that it was simply just one of those vile energy drinks.” Hanzo says, thrusting a bowl of rice at his brother. 

 

“Those things are a godsend and you just can’t appreciate how far science has come at keeping us awake.” Genji replies as he takes the rice and chopsticks and moves over to the table to eat.

 

“They will ruin your pancreas, Genji.” Hanzo chides as he serves himself the rest of the rice and takes  his seat. They both murmur thanks and begin eating. Inbetween bites of rice, Genji points at Hanzo with his chopsticks.

 

“You’re one to talk, Mr. Rice-and-green-tea-for-breakfast. Not even some kelp flakes or orange juice!” Genji accuses. Hanzo glares at him.

 

“Don’t point with your chopsticks, it’s rude,” Hanzo chides. “And I ran out of orange juice yesterday. So stop complaining.” Genji shrugs.

 

“Yeah well it’s cranberry juice in the next shipment Anija. Don’t make that face, it’s good for you.” Genji backfires as Hanzo glares even more darkly at him.

 

“Cranberry juice is an abomination and you know it, Genji.” Hanzo replies. Genji scoffs.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Anija. It’ll grow on you if you give it a chance.” Genji says. He’s been saying that for 3 years without success.

 

“Listen, I need to get going. But I’ll bring you some boba tomorrow, ok?” Genji says sweetly. Hanzo glowers at him.

 

“Make sure it’s matcha.” Hanzo grumbles into his rice. Genji grins, and Hanzo sees that bright little boy who would sneak in his window at night and curl up next to him. Genji grabs one of Hanzo’s horns and gives his head a teasing shake.

 

“Of course, Anija.” Genji says, collecting his coat and heading out. He pauses at the doorway.

 

“Oh, by the way. A guest attending a tour of the grounds yesterday disappeared without a trace. You didn’t happen to see anything, did you?” Genji asks, looking over his shoulder. His tone and posture  has shifted into something predatory. A wolf guarding its den. 

 

Hanzo’s face betrays nothing as the image of the cowboy unconscious on his futon flies through his mind’s eye.

 

“No.” He answers. Genji shrugs.

 

“As long as they didn’t get in here. I’ll have the police keep an eye out for them. The employee giving the tour as well as most of security got a good look at their face.” Genji says. Hanzo feels his heart thump uncomfortably. 

 

“Well, I gotta run. See you tomorrow, Anija!” Genji says, countenance brightening before he rounds the corner and disappears whistling. Hanzo lets out a breath.

 

_ Keeping secrets, Hanzo? This is unlike you. _ The dragon muses. Hanzo hisses, his tail swishing angrily across the floor.

 

“I decided yesterday not to mention this. You  _ know  _ this.” Hanzo accuses. The dark chuckle of the dragon bounces around his skull.

 

_ Yes. But it is fun to see how nervous you are. You have been so honest and straightforward your whole life. But this is quite invigorating. Doing something so selfish, it’s fascinating.  _ The dragon says. Hanzo growls, refusing to respond.

  
Abandoning his breakfast, Hanzo goes to the library and pulls a book off the shelf at random. He opens it, his mind not really registering any of the words as he waits for McCree-san to arrive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon Hanzo with dragon spirit! Oh boy!
> 
> Eternally laughing that I came up with some western themed haiku. Also the type of donburi Hanzo ate for dinner is called gyūdon. It's a mildly sweet dish of beef over rice, seasoned with sweet rice wine (mirin) and soy sauce. 
> 
> Also Hanzo I am with you on the cranberry juice. Absolutely awful.
> 
> ALSO QUIGLEY DOWN UNDER IS THE SUPERIOR WESTERN WHY THE FUCK DO WE GO ON ABOUT SHITFACE CLINT EASTWOOD WHEN THERE IS TOM SELLECK AKA GOD'S GIFT TO WOMEN AND GAY COWBOYS (and snake boys)
> 
> Cheers!
> 
> special thanks to serenitydiviness on tumblr for being my beta reader and suffering all my good ideas.
> 
> come yell at me on tumblr: sleeping-ranna.tumblr.com


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